


Voices

by Lyn_Laine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-21 19:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: In one universe, Harry Potter struggles on as a lone orphan.  In another universe, Hugo Potter listens to a voice in his head named Imogen.  And strangely?  She's not there to hurt him.Not as dark as it sounds.  Eventual teenage dating of all sexualities without any set final pairing.





	1. How Imogen Fixed Everything

“Hugo. It’s time to wake up.”

Hugo heard the cool, silvery female voice in his head and his eyes blinked open. He rolled over in bed and shifted, blinking sleepily at the ceiling, as Imogen’s voice retreated.

He’d had her voice in his head, one lone voice, for as long as he could remember. She’d started out as a child like him and grown with him, always seeming to give him the perfect advice at exactly the right moment. One thing she had insisted from the beginning was that no one else could know about her.

_“Who are you?” he’d asked her once inside his head when he’d been about five._

_“I don’t know, Hugo. I’ve just always been a part of you.” There was a smile in her voice now. “... Why don’t you name me?”_

He’d scoured books of names at local libraries for his first full year of school, trying to find the perfect name. Eventually, he’d chosen the name Imogen - and he’d given her his surname, Potter. She was like his sister, in fact the only sister he had.

Only later when his research had become more sophisticated had Hugo and Imogen realized the truth. Some people who heard voices in their head actually got on quite well with that voice or those voices. The voices encouraged and offered moral support, love, and help.

Hugo was probably mentally ill. It was just that he didn’t want to get rid of his voice, Imogen. She was quite a good friend. He got on perfectly well with her. Sometimes she even noticed things he hadn’t consciously picked up on.

Their greatest triumph had been several years ago. Hugo was now ten.

_“Uncle Vernon.” Hugo looked up at his uncle innocently. “Do you think the odd things happen because I’m not allowed to be bizarre in any other way?”_

_Uncle Vernon froze, his eyes narrowing. Aunt Petunia gasped and dropped a plate with a crash. Even Dudley looked around._

_Uncle Vernon glared down at Hugo. “... What are you implying?” he asked at last._

_“I don’t know why they happen,” said Hugo. “I’m just speculating. Do you think the odd things happen because this house is so normal and I’m not allowed to be odd?”_

_Imogen had told him just what to say._

_Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon shared a meaningful look. “Do you think… if we allowed you to be odd in other ways… those things would stop?” Uncle Vernon asked consideringly at last._

_Hugo listened silently to Imogen and then spoke. “I can promise you they will,” he assured. “If I’m allowed to be creative… as awful as that is… I think it would all go away.”_

_Uncle Vernon sighed and muttered something about special needs._

_“Very well,” said Uncle Vernon. “Creativity allowed. I don’t like it… but it’s better than that freak stuff.”_

_“Since I am special needs,” said Hugo, “I’m not looking for handouts, but shouldn’t I have a bedroom?” He was still listening to Imogen’s voice in his ear. “In order to have proper space to be creative.”_

_“... Fine.” Uncle Vernon glared. “Anything else?” he asked threateningly._

_“... My time outside school and chores kept free.” Hugo bowed his head, trying to seem appropriately contrite._

_“You want him to think you’re spineless,” Imogen advised._

_“Spineless,” Uncle Vernon said aloud. He sighed. “Dudley!” He barked. “No more hitting the artist pansy kid.” He sneered. “You can say whatever you’d like about him, but leave him well alone. Unless you’d like some of that catching onto you.”_

_Dudley laughed harshly. “No, Dad,” he said smugly, eyeing Hugo with vast superiority. “I’m fine.”_

_“Glare resentfully but feebly,” Imogen instructed._

_Hugo did what he thought approximated about that. He was rewarded by the Dursleys sneering and returning to their separate household duties. Little did they know, he had just won._

That very week, Hugo had moved all of his things from out of the cobwebby, spidery staircase closet and up to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Dudley and his gang had stopped hitting him at school, he’d been allowed imagination and creativity, and life had significantly improved.

Was it true that the odd things stopped happening? … Not quite. Things still mysteriously floated, shrank, grew, and changed color often in Hugo’s presence. But here was the trick, so Imogen had pointed out to him - none of it happened around his relatives anymore. Released from many of their strictures, he felt freer in their presence and so the odd things never happened around them. Hugo and Imogen had realized together that the odd things only happened when Hugo got emotional and upset.

So he could hide the rest from his relatives. They never suspected a thing. And as time went on longer without any “freak nonsense,” Hugo had been allowed to make increasingly outrageous artistic demands - all in the name of creativity - to keep them from coming back. These demands had stressed out his normality-obsessed family, but delighted him.

Hugo Potter always woke at dawn. He scribbled down last night’s dream in his dream journal, which always rested on his bedside table - _Long blue winged centipedes shaped like light fixtures on the ceiling, canes made of glittering purple amethyst with mirrors atop them,_ he wrote this morning. Once he’d been able to creatively consider his often-bizarre dreams, he’d never been able to get enough of it.

Then he got dressed, traveled down into the Dursley house, spent the morning cleaning and gardening, and then came inside to make breakfast. There were of course no photographs of him in the house - only of Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and their son Dudley. It was part of the reason why years ago, Hugo had become obsessed with photography. He was obsessed with taking pictures, not of himself, but of his world - with proving he’d always been here.

_He’d gone to a photography instructor and explained this desire to him. “I want to prove - that I exist. That my world exists,” Hugo had said._

_“One of the oldest artistic desires,” the elderly Black man had smiled. He was thin with a silvery salt and pepper beard, kind dark eyes. “What do you want to take pictures of?”_

_Hugo looked around at the class of older students that had just been let out. “People,” he said, waving. “Situations. Life.”_

_“Spontaneous photojournalism,” the man had interpreted. “Well that’s a start right there. Do you know what kind of camera you want to use?”_

_“... I’d like to develop film,” Hugo had decided. “The way people used to.”_

_“Ah.” The man had chuckled. “Old fashioned. That’ll be black and white.”_

Even now, Hugo’s fancy old camera sat patiently in his bedroom, a long row of developed photographs hanging from a line of string clung by clothespins above it. He loved taking the bus into Surrey city, wandering around, and just taking photograph after photograph of real people in live situations.

But his artistic statements were everywhere, really - in his fashion, the Dursley house interior, the Dursley gardens, and the food he made for the Dursleys. And unlike his photography classes, which had only lasted a couple of courses with that same instructor, he’d taken intensive child genius level courses at a special away art school during summers for these next four gifts.

_“If you’re going to be creative,” Aunt Petunia had mandated snootily, “you might as well be creative in a helpful way, and make us look better.”_

_Little had she known what she was getting herself into._

_“You’re making us look ridiculous!” she’d hissed at the exact same spot in the kitchen a year later, almost tearfully. “You’re making us look -!” A whole family meeting had been called._

_And then the telephone rang._

_“Y… yes?” said Aunt Petunia uncertainly and tearfully into the phone. “Oh - oh, thank you. Thank you!”_

_She’d seemed increasingly glowing, and eventually, she’d hung up._

_“Vernon,” she beamed into Uncle Vernon’s bewildered face, “... they love it! That was Mrs Pinkins. She called to ask who I’ve been having do my interior and landscape, because she wants to hire them herself! And she says Hugo has been looking much smarter lately. Much improved.”_

_“... Do you know,” said Vernon thoughtfully, “last time the boy helped with a meal before retreating into his room for a dinner party, my client specifically said the food had been delightful. A refreshing change, he said.” He raised his eyebrows at Petunia meaningfully._

_“Well, it makes sense. It’s all freak stuff and Hugo’s good at freak stuff.” Everyone had turned, stunned, to a peaceably blinking Dudley. Normally an idiot, he had just made a very good point._

_Uncle Vernon had turned to Hugo. “Boy,” he boomed, “you are now going to be doing much of all that around here from now on!” He’d pointed a finger sternly, as if this was a punishment, which as this was a creative hobby - quite frankly, it wasn’t._

_“Don’t seem too pleased; they won’t like it,” Imogen warned him, as Hugo tried hard not to beam._

And so years later, Hugo was impeccably clean and neat. He fashioned himself carefully, his home carefully, his garden carefully, and he loved trying new recipes. He loved the simple beauty of perfection.

His own signature interior design was a combination of three styles. 

The outline was industrial. Industrial style drew inspiration from a warehouse or an urban loft. Exposed brickwork, ductwork, and wood was all expected here. Thick lifted ceilings, old timber, dangling metal light fixtures, and a touch of abstract sparsity finished off the industrial outline. Hugo’d had to go right back to the basics in the Dursleys’ corporate suburban house, remaking it into a warehouse loft outline, an industrial sort of place. This had made Vernon and Dudley happy.

Then to make Petunia happy, he’d added more.

The interior warmth was done in french country style. Warm and earthy colors were common in french country furniture, as was worn wood. Warm red, yellow, and gold as well as natural materials like stone and brick added more life to the interior furnishings. Heavy linens and ornate porcelain dishes - an almost farmhouse flare, though he would never tell the snooty Dursleys that - finished off this part of the look.

Then to add accent and sophistication, he finished off with a bit of bohemian. He thought shabby chic was a bit too soft, pastel, and girly - not only for his new look, but for his uncle. So bohemian was a nice compromise when it came to sophisticated accents. Most furniture and light fixtures carried a vintage or even threaded flair in bohemian style, and soft, thick textiles and rugs were also common. Elegant floor pillows and comfortable seating spaces were prevalent. 

The dining room was his masterpiece - a warm colored vintage wood table, a chandelier, a well worn rug, mid century chairs, and exposed ductwork in vast metal piping along the walls.

It looked, everyone insisted, quite professionally made. Hugo was a true artistic genius, it was agreed, in various tones of either mild disgust or high admiration, depending on who was speaking.

He carried this artistry with more confidence into other realms. The gardens, his aunt insisted, were next. Using neat, straight, clean lines, Hugo had crafted tiny little scenes all over both the front and back gardens - wall gardens, plant sculptures, and terrariums, mainly. The front and back doors were lined with potted plants such as succulents, grasses, and ponytail palms.

It was, he thought, rather all as he wanted his adult home to look. Though hopefully that would be made with more pleasant people.

Then there was his personal fashion itself - and in this Hugo had turned rather more classic. Just because he was the artist behind the scenes, hidden from view during most house visits, didn’t mean he couldn’t look his best. 

He chose black, grey, and navy blazers. His wristwatch, the only one he had ever been allowed, had sophisticated details such as a black on black dial with silver trim around the face and a sleek metal band. There were mostly black colors in his wardrobe, but also bold colors like burgundy and classics like white. His shoes were leather oxfords. 

More casually, most of his shirts were in dark colors like black, charcoal, navy blue, and earth tones. He wore straight leg jeans and white canvas trainers. He carried his art materials around in a nylon backpack. His single hat was a newsboy cap.

His go-to nice outfit was slacks, a lightweight solid color pullover top, and leather sneakers. Most of his pants were in solid colors such as black, brown, and navy. He preferred solids and textures over patterns.

Hugo was a small, slim boy with messy jet black hair, almond shaped bright green eyes, a thin face, and knobby knees. The knees were why he never wore shorts - always pants or jeans. But his haircut and glasses were fit to his hair and facial specifications.

His hair was coiffed with tousled waves into a faux hawk at the front of his head. Then he spritzed onto his damp, almost dry hair and ruffled it with his fingers, adding a touch of extra tousle at the end to really get the full effect. The idea was to go with the mess instead of struggle against it.

His glasses were old-fashioned clubmaster browline glasses. The top, darker half mimicked how the browline framed the face. Cool yet professional, these glasses were good for narrower face shapes because they drew the attention back again to the eyes - and Hugo’s eyes were one of his best features.

And finally came the food.

In cooking, Hugo was adventurous with an emphasis on the foreign - a culinary world traveler. He rarely used recipes as written and loved to experiment with ingredients and flavors. Some of his favorite baking ingredients were chocolate, butter, and vanilla. His favorite thing to bake was cakes and puddings. In baking, he was an innovator. Creative and trendsetting, innovative bakers seldom used recipes and liked to experiment with ingredients, cuisine styles and methods. He always used interesting and imaginative designs as well, and brewed and drank mint tea while he worked, mint tea being one of those rare things he had a particular weakness and fondness for.

So this morning, he got dressed, did his hair and glasses. Then he cleaned and rearranged everything just so in the home, tended the gardens, and brewed himself some mint tea, sipping at it while he made Dudley’s birthday breakfast - a kind of cheesy Spanish frittata.

Dudley Dursley was turning eleven today. It was a Saturday in June, and Hugo Potter’s eleventh birthday would coming up in about a month.

“What are you going to do?” Imogen asked him excitedly.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Hugo answered her peaceably in his own head, smiling a little.

While he was making breakfast in the morning, Aunt Petunia finally came downstairs - she was always the next one to awaken. “Good,” she said disapprovingly. “You’re making breakfast. Don’t let it it burn.” Nose in the air, she stalked away in her clicking heels. Hugo stared after her, mildly offended.

He hadn’t taken several years of intensive culinary courses so he could let a frittata burn on an important day.

“Don’t let it get to you,” said Imogen, and Hugo could practically hear her eyes rolling, “she’s always like that.”

Aunt Petunia looked a bit like a giraffe to Hugo, with a horse-like face, and she always had. Uncle Vernon was definitely a purple boar, and Dudley - strangely for reasons that had nothing to do with his physical size - was the perfect physical representation of a little pink pig. They all wore very nice clothes, fancy clothes, but in the end they were animals and it was hopelessly that way.

_Hugo had gotten into drawing quite by accident._

_His teacher had seen his caricature drawing of Dudley one day in class; he’d gasped, looked up, and tucked the drawing underneath his arm. But the teacher, a balding man in a button-up shirt, had smiled._

_“You should look into the art classes here,” he’d said. “You’re a natural at dark, cartoonish, sort of caricature drawings.”_

As the art classes were freely provided by the school and he only ever had photography during the school year, it was an easy decision. He’d been doing those strange, dark, imaginative caricatures and quick life sketches ever since. They covered the walls of his bedroom.

The table behind him was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Hugo, as Dudley hated exercise of all kinds and was deeply, morbidly obese. Hugo was pretty sure he’d never use it.

Hugo’s own bicycle was not as good, though he used it more often and he didn’t mind. When his relatives were sick of him and wanted to get rid of him, he had convinced them a bicycle and a local pool were best for getting out of their hair. 

_“Less energy to cause trouble,” he’d pointed out brightly, looking up at them from underneath his glasses and his hair, getting better at this deception thing under his own power._

_“Good job,” Imogen praised approvingly._

_“And all you need to do,” Hugo had continued enticingly, “is buy me a cheap bike and a few swimming lessons. You’ll never have to look at me during summertimes off again.”_

_It had been worth their trouble._

He biked often into the city, not only so that he could take photographs, but so that he could visit his tattoo artist friend. He’d become fascinated by tattoo art especially in relation to scars; he had a scar himself.

It was a lightning bolt on his forehead. He’d had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

_“In the car crash when your parents died,” she snapped, “when you were a baby. And don’t ask questions!”_

Hugo had turned to books to fill the void created by this rule, another Imogen suggestion. Of course, he was particularly fascinated by complex nonfiction - not out of any natural inclination, but because he wanted his questions answered.

_“You want to tattoo that scar yourself someday?” the man had asked, tan and sinewy with closely shorn dark hair and some serious ink himself. He looked curious and impressed by this pretentious little shit, if anything._

_“I don’t know,” said Hugo. “But I’m fascinated by scars - and how people make them into art.”_

_His future friend had nodded. “People do that with vases, too,” he said. “Broken vases? They have them remade but with gold fillings in the cracks. Sort of the idea of something broken being beautiful. Remaking the broken into something amazing, you know?”_

_His name was Toby and some of his conversations could get seriously cosmic. Hugo would continue to visit him for years to come._

Hugo did have other friends as well - his little old cat lady babysitter Mrs Figg always got together all the friends who liked Hugo at school, every year for his birthday. He did have some friends, being talented and nice-looking and no longer having Dudley about to punch anyone who got too close - no longer wearing baggy, ragged clothes, awful haircuts, and broken glasses, the way he used to.

The way he used to back before Imogen took charge and fixed everything. 

_“I’m done comforting you,” she’d said icily one day, as Hugo had sat beaten in his cupboard amid the cobwebs and rags again. He’d been feeling particularly defeated._

_“... You’re abandoning me?” he said. She was his only friend, the voice in his head._

_“No,” said Imogen briskly. “For some reason, I’m of higher intelligence than you. You’re not stupid, Hugo dear, but I’m brilliant. And I’m going to fix this._

_“I’m going to fix everything.”_

And she had - simply by implanting the idea in the Dursleys that more happiness and freedom meant less “freakish interference.” They still didn’t like Hugo, or give him pocket money, but years later, they didn’t try to keep him miserable either. Psychology was a wonderful thing.

Mrs Figg and his friends took him, on his birthday, wherever he wanted to go. Usually he asked to go for an adventure park, a restaurant, a day of sci fi gaming, or a trip to the drive-in theater - he adored the movies, particularly mysteries and social issues film that made him think. Mrs Figg got him the early interest in social issues that Uncle Vernon never could, talking to him frankly during her times babysitting him - when the Dursleys didn’t want him around - about how the world really worked.

She and her countless purring cats in her dim, colorful, cluttered house were the reason he loved cats.

“Look alive,” said Imogen in Hugo’s mind suddenly as he continued making breakfast.

Aunt Petunia was still waking Dudley upstairs. But thundering downstairs, Uncle Vernon - the one who still liked him least - was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imogen came from two movies I saw recently, Spiderman Homecoming and Blade Runner 2049. I was fascinated by the idea of an assistant, especially a brilliant computerized one, specifically there to assist the hero. I started wondering how I could recreate that in a fantastical, almost haunted, storyline such as Harry Potter. Yu-Gi-Oh! gave me a hint, with the Pharaoh, but that's not quite what I did here.
> 
> There is a story behind Imogen, but you won't find out what it is until Hugo does... I'll give you a hint, it has to do with his name change...


	2. Unnerving

Uncle Vernon thumped into the kitchen - stopped and glared at Hugo, who stilled, expressionless, and stared cautiously down at the food he was making.

Uncle Vernon harrumphed. “Still spineless,” he said acidically, “and making weird breakfasts.” He clunked over to the table with his massive girth, collapsed into a seat, and took up the morning newspaper Hugo had placed there for him, opening it.

“But if I talked back or glared at him,” Hugo thought bitterly to Imogen, “he’d tell me I was being impudent.”

“Oh, Hugo, you know there’s no winning with him,” said Imogen in mild concern. “You’ve known that for years.”

It was true. Hugo had. Uncle Vernon hated everything about Hugo, from his messy hair to his slim form and artistic preferences, his preference for survival over fighting. Hugo was everything Uncle Vernon deeply despised, oddness and all, all built into one person. Trapped from doing anything more by the fear of “freakishness,” he instead made bitter comments in Hugo’s direction.

Hugo was virtually done with breakfast by the time Dudley was finally up and ready and entered the kitchen with his mother. Unhealthy and spoiled, Dudley wore the frankly horrid clothes his mother picked out for him and was allowed to pitch however many fits he wanted to in the mornings. The only reason he wasn’t picked on in school was because he was the bully - very good at beating people up and throwing dangerous fits of temper.

He wasn’t allowed to beat Hugo up, of course, but he did try to make Hugo’s life miserable as often as possible, jeered and mocked and laughed at him, called him several names. Dudley clearly found himself the superior specimen, mostly because his father did and that was what his adoring parents told him.

Hugo moved presents carefully aside as he arranged the perfectly aesthetic dishes on the kitchen table.

“Look at you. Being all pathetic. It’s all going in the same place,” Dudley took time out of his birthday breakfast to mock.

Hugo of course wasn’t allowed to respond. In private, in his own head, he called Dudley a tasteless plebeian with reserved disgust.

But Dudley was mostly busy counting his presents, as he did every year. Dudley always had enough presents to count, while Hugo - who never received so much as birthday greetings from the Dursleys - never got more than nine at best. As he got older and Dudley got worse, he’d actually begun to think that was healthier.

Dudley’s face fell as Hugo sat down and tucked into his food.

“Thirty six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy,” Aunt Petunia cooed with misty, adoring eyes.

“Alright, thirty seven then,” Dudley growled. His face was screwing up and reddening as if in constipation, his eyes were narrowing, his voice becoming higher. He looked like a very angry balloon, and in fact Hugo had drawn that in private more than once.

Everyone knew what that meant - an infamous Dudley Dursley temper tantrum was coming on. Hugo pulled his plate neatly into his lap in case Dudley turned the table over. Again.

Aunt Petunia obviously saw what was coming too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that alright?”

Dudley thought for a moment. He always managed to make thinking look like an enormously difficult feat. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty… thirty…”

Hugo was no genius in academics, but he was pretty good and his best subjects were in science and maths, so this was rather painful for him.

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.

“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “Alright then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Hugo and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take him today.” She jerked her head in Hugo’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror and Hugo stood, almost equally horrified. The Dursleys always left him with Mrs Figg during Dudley’s birthdays out with his closest friend. He preferred it that way. He loved Mrs Figg’s house, dim and cool and full of wonderful little colorful fantastical things and treasures, full of cats. Mrs Figg herself was always nice to talk to, the only person besides Toby who ever really talked to him like he was an adult.

“Can’t I go over and help her around?” he asked desperately. “I could take care of her, prop her feet up, make her food -”

Aunt Petunia glared. “Poor old Mrs Figg doesn’t need to be bothered by the likes of you today,” she snapped.

“Can I talk to her?”

“She hung up.”

“Can I call her back? For well wishes?”

Aunt Petunia paused, then sighed. “Fine,” she said, resigned, and waved a hand. Hugo left his family behind and hurried out to the telephone sitting on a little end table by the front door.

After three rings, Mrs Figg picked up. “Yes?” she said wearily, as if with enormous exasperation about the world.

“Hi, Mrs Figg. It’s Hugo,” he said quietly and sympathetically. “I - I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Thanks. I broke it tripping over Snowy,” Mrs Figg sighed. “It hurts like the devil, I’ll tell you that.”

“And you’re - you’re sure I can’t come over and help?” Hugo asked, wincing.

“Oh, no, Hugo, I think I just need to rest in the quiet for today,” said Mrs Figg, and he heard the sound of shifting. She must be in the armchair by the phone.

“Okay,” said Hugo. “Well… feel better.” He hung up.

Then he heard loud, fake Dudley crying coming from the kitchen and he rolled his eyes. Dudley must want something he wasn’t getting again. He walked back into the kitchen only to find Dudley pretending to bawl his eyes out in his mother’s arms.

“I - don’t - want - him - t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-spoils everything!” He shot Hugo a nasty grin through the gap in his mother’s arms. Hugo glared, his nose wrinkling, but he stayed silent.

Stupid Dudley thought Hugo wanted to go to the zoo today. He didn’t. The idea of animals in cages for public amusement didn’t make him entirely comfortable, and that was putting aside how much he hated spending time with the Dursleys. Hugo could think of plenty more fun things he had already done and could be doing.

“I can go over to a friend’s house,” he suggested, “or go into town.”

“For the entire day? No! You’ll cause too much fuss. It’s amazing people put up with you for a few hours as it is,” said Aunt Petunia worriedly, standing.

Hugo didn’t bother to argue. He sighed. “And I take it you can’t think of anything else to do with me.” Thank God he hadn’t been around to hear them talk about him over his head like he couldn’t understand them. He hated that.

“No! It’s rather short notice!” Aunt Petunia snapped, as if Mrs Figg was being awfully inconvenient.

“So is a broken leg,” Hugo pointed out.

“Shut up!” Uncle Vernon snapped. “I’m not taking that brat to the zoo, so what the hell are we -?!”

Just then, the doorbell rang. Dudley’s friend was here. “Oh, Good Lord, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically. A moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy and he, too, had always reminded Hugo of an animal - this time, of a rat. He was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs at school while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Hugo was in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. He wasn’t really any happier than his aunt and uncle, who hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with him. He'd even decided not to take his camera, just to avoid irritating them any further with constant stops for photographs. Even worse, they might just leave him to get lost in the zoo. Anyway, he got the feeling this was one of those times he wouldn't want to remember. As they’d walked out of the house, Uncle Vernon had pulled Hugo aside by the scruff of his neck and growled, “Keep your head down and try not to act like a total freak. It’ll embarrass us.”

Then he’d let Hugo go and stomped flatly out the door as Piers and Dudley looked on and snickered, Hugo’s face rather hot and flushed.

Hugo stared out the car window at the passing scenery, running dreamily over last night’s fantastical series of images in his mind. He could talk about them out loud, but he liked keeping to himself the things he enjoyed, so they wouldn’t be mocked. Anyway, it would have been pushing his luck, talking about things so fantastical to the Dursleys.

As he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things. People at work, Hugo, the city council, Hugo, the bank, and Hugo were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles, with motorcycle riders being “maniacs” and “young hoodlums.”

They could have been similar to him in age, some of them, but Uncle Vernon, in his tie with his mustache and balding black hair and broad shoulders, looked very much older than them indeed. Hugo would at least rather have been them than his uncle. Hugo’d had dreams of a flying motorcycle a few times. They were quite pleasant.

He decided not to mention this to his uncle, being held back carefully by a watchful Imogen.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Hugo what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a much cheaper Fudgesicle. It wasn’t bad, either, Hugo thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head, who looked remarkably like Dudley except that it wasn’t blond.

“Imogen,” he said in his head, “make a note to draw that later. Dudley the gorilla in a zoo enclosure.”

“Done and done,” said Imogen, pleased.

They walked around the zoo, looking at the animals, Hugo feeling rather sorry for the ones in the smaller enclosures but conscientiously reading all the plaques. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his Knickerbocker Glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Hugo was allowed to finish the first. Typically he was only allowed dessert at home because it cost no extra money and he helped make it - or sometimes one of his friends got him something. So this was a special treat.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Hugo loved dim, cool places. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Hugo wasn’t sure how to feel. On one hand, watching the reptiles move was fascinating, their flickering gleaming eyes. On the other hand, these might be some of the smallest enclosures of all, and Hugo got the suspicious feeling it was mostly because people wanted to see lots of reptiles and it would have been hard to spot them in a bigger enclosure.

Dudley and Piers didn’t mind. They wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man crushing pythons. Hugo rolled his eyes ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a rubbish bin, but at the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, its head was facing away from the glass front of the tank and it might have been asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. Hugo read the plaque. “Boa Constrictor - Brazil. This specimen was bred in the zoo.” 

It was a very cold thing to put on the plaque. Hugo remembered all the stares he’d gotten over his lifetime, the feeling of being trapped in strict, cold mundanity. “This specimen was bred in the zoo.” He felt a sudden kinship to this snake.

The snake shifted, but didn’t turn to face them. Dudley gasped in delight. “Make it move more!” he commanded his father. (Aunt Petunia had refused to enter the reptile house, but Piers was with them.)

Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t move another inch.

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered.

Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with knuckles. With impressive stubbornness in refusing to perform, the boa constrictor stayed perfectly still and stared at the back of the tank. Hugo felt even greater kinship and a true sense of respectful admiration.

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away. His father followed him. Hugo moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake.

“Hugo,” Imogen suddenly warned him, “Piers is still behind you.”

Hugo turned around. “Got a crush, Piers?” he challenged.

Piers flushed. “No!” he snapped defensively.

“Then why are you staring at me? I’m not doing anything special.”

Piers rolled his eyes and left after Dudley and Uncle Vernon.

“Thanks,” Hugo told Imogen in his own head, turning back to the snake tank.

The snake suddenly raised its head and turned to face Hugo, beady golden eyes looking directly into his. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a direct level with Hugo’s. Not above, not below - just direct.

“What’s going on?” Hugo asked Imogen slowly.

“Hugo, I’ve spent my entire life inside your head,” said Imogen in exasperation. “I don’t know…” she added curiously and softly.

The snake opened its mouth - and human words issued out of its jaw, in a low, hissing male voice with a slight Brazilian accent. “I can’t believe those are your relatives, human,” said the snake. “I felt your pity. We are alike, yes?”

“Another weird thing you can do,” Imogen realized, just as Hugo also had the thought. He ducked his head and looked quickly around. No one in the reptile house was watching. Slowly, he looked back at the tank.

“Sort of,” he said cautiously, speaking softly so as not to be overheard. “But somehow I think you have it worse than me. My name’s Hugo.”

“And they gave me a name, amigo, but I do not like it,” said the snake contemptuously. “I do not want a name given to me by my captors.”

“What if that could be your name? Amigo?” Hugo suggested.

“You always have been rather good at creative new names,” Imogen praised him warmly.

“Amigo… I like it…” the snake hissed softly. “Anyway. I get that banging sort of thing all the time.”

“It must get really annoying,” said Hugo sympathetically. “Being trapped with nothing but people hammering on your door all day.” Amigo nodded vigorously.

“You understand,” Amigo realized. “How?”

“Like you, I don’t remember where I come from. I was bred among distant kin who hate me, in a private estate corporate suburb where I’ve never felt like I fit in. You could say I’m a specimen bred in captivity, too,” said Hugo scathingly.

Amigo hissed with laughter.

Then, suddenly, Imogen warned Hugo, “Dudley and Piers are coming.” Hugo’s head whirled around. Dudley and Piers were shouting and thundering toward him.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye,” Hugo told Amigo quickly, and he stepped neatly out of the way.

“Goodbye… Hugo…”

Dudley and Piers filled the space Hugo had provided, noses pressed against the tank, staring eagerly at the snake. Amigo hissed at them irritably and they gasped in rather stupid awe. Slowly, Amigo sank back down again. That intelligent, majestic creature - it was awful to watch.

“You feel sympathy for these animals, don’t you?” Imogen asked him sympathetically.

“... It’s wrong,” Hugo told her softly in his own head. “The way they’re treated.” He watched Dudley and Piers start hammering on the glass again.

“How did you do that?” Hugo turned around to find Uncle Vernon glaring down at him suspiciously.

“I don’t know,” said Hugo innocently. “It must have finally woken up from all the knocking, I suppose.”

Uncle Vernon harrumphed and turned back to the other two boys reluctantly.

-

Hugo lay in his bedroom much later. He had survived yet another possible brush with disaster, and that was all he ever did - survive. When Dudley had tried to beat him up, he’d run and hid. When he’d been locked in his tiny, spider-filled cupboard without food, he’d picked the lock and snuck back out to steal food after everyone else had gone to sleep.

And that instinct had never left him. Even now, he was still more of a survivor than he was a fighter. Every calculation was another step toward making it alive and healthy to the moment he left the Dursley house forever at eighteen. Where he would go after that, he did not yet know, though he had the suspicious feeling he should probably start figuring it out. He knew he didn’t want to do business or anything inherently unethical - that was about as far as he’d gotten.

He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, and though he’d had lots of good times in those years, every moment with the Dursleys themselves had been purely miserable. They hadn’t left him with a single good or happy memory. He supposed his last happy memory of family must have been one he hadn’t kept, a memory from before his parents had died in that car crash when he was a baby.

He couldn’t remember being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the car crash, though he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. Imogen had put forward the idea that they’d been driving through a traffic light, but could a traffic light have filled his vision with that much blinding green?

Hugo couldn’t remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Hugo had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened - the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very eccentric strangers - in wild green dresses or purple tailcoats and top hats - would often wave at him as if they knew him, or come up to him to bow or shake his hand. 

Hugo suspected they were homeless and mentally ill, and always wanted a picture of them. But he would reach down to his camera, and when he looked back up, they were gone. He had suspected they might be hallucinations like Imogen, until one day in a store Aunt Petunia and Dudley had seen one of them too, and it had quite alarmed them.

Hugo had plenty of other people in his life, so he didn’t cling to these memories - but they unnerved him, all the same.


	3. Signs Missed

Hugo finished primary school that very month with good grades and good final test scores, especially in maths and science, and was let in a great rush of freedom out into the world of summer and his future.

He spent much of his summer as he normally did. He spent time with his school friends, often gaming, and with Mrs Figg and her cats for political conversation; he biked and swam; he traveled into the city to take photographs and visit Toby for cosmic conversations; he drew more sketches and wrote more in his dream journal; he developed more rolls of film in the dark room he’d made out of the basement; he went to the movies and rented nonfiction books from the library.

There was one major difference. This summer, he was not taking intensive decorative arts programs. His aunt and uncle seemed to feel that several years was enough training and as they were preparing both he and Dudley for secondary school, they were far too busy to pay to allow him off to some fancy school. So while Hugo kept up with what he already knew and could do in gardening, interior design, fashion, and the culinary arts, he did not receive any further training.

Dudley spent the summer in his own way. Within two weeks, he had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote controlled aeroplane and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down poor little old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. Hugo really had insisted on coming over and taking care of her this time, feeling hot anger towards Dudley, but Mrs Figg wasn’t the only person Dudley hurt in the first part of that summer. His big gang of lumbering friends came over every summer’s day and they wandered the neighborhood, beating up usually-smaller children.

Hugo could see even greater hope at the end of the summer holidays. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss would be going there as well. It was a boarding school, so Dudley would no longer even be at home during the school year, a further bonus.

Hugo wasn’t going to Smeltings. He was going to Stonewall High, the local public school which cost much less money. Dudley thought this was very funny.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Hugo. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”

“No, thanks,” said Hugo. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it. It might be sick. What, Dudley?” he asked mockingly, as Dudley’s face reddened and his fists clenched. “Going to hit the special needs kid?”

And he ghosted up the stairs as Dudley stared with enormous spite after him.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia went up to London to buy school uniforms. She took Dudley with her but didn’t feel like putting up with Hugo, so she left him at Mrs Figg’s house. He spent a happy afternoon there, vastly preferring this instead.

That evening, Hugo was handed his new school uniforms - plain grey ones with white shirts, size small. Not particularly exciting, but it could have been worse. He could have been Dudley.

Unlike Hugo, who was given the blessed relief of allowing all his uniforms to be immediately put in his wardrobe, Dudley was commanded to parade around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. And even though Hugo was quite young, he’d had that talk last year in school, he heard boys talk, and yes he did know how horrible the name “boaters” truly was. 

Smeltings boys also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. 

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins; he looked so handsome and grown-up. Hugo sat in horrified silence, a hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hold back the comment on the very tip of his tongue. Imogen was laughing hysterically inside his head.

-

Breakfast the next morning started out as usual. Everyone sat down to Hugo’s breakfast, a kind of sweet Japanese bean paste porridge decorated with sugar together with green tea and a piece of fruit. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his newspaper.

“Make Hugo get it.”

“Get the mail, Hugo.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Hugo dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Hugo.

“Probably from the library,” said Hugo casually inside his head.

“Best to read it here, though,” said Imogen. “You know how your uncle likes to grab all your mail and read it before you.”

“True,” said Hugo.

He picked up the letter, and the first odd thing he noticed was the address line:

Mr H. Potter

The Smallest Bedroom

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, Hugo saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. “Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,” said the Latin inscription around the seal. Whatever that meant.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke and faint distaste came over Hugo’s face.

Finally, deciding it was now or nothing, he slit the envelope open and two pieces of heavy yellowish parchment paper fell out. Hugo picked up the first one.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall 

Deputy Headmistress

Hugo stood there, very still, for what must have been a long time. Because all of a sudden it all went off in his head like fireworks, and for a time he and Imogen wordlessly were one in their realization. The weird things that had always happened around him - triggered by his emotion - the snake speak.

He was magic. A wizard. Magic.

The letter was suddenly jerked sharply out of his hand from behind by Uncle Vernon, who must have been calling to him for several minutes. Uncle Vernon saw the letter - his face paled - he look up at Hugo just as Hugo looked up at him - and in that moment, both of them knew.

“... I thought it was gone,” said Uncle Vernon quietly.

“I… I thought so, too,” said Hugo quietly, stunned. It was a lie, but the best he could come up with in his shock.

And then hot fury crossed his uncle’s face.

Hugo bolted for the front door in a blind panic, but Uncle Vernon grabbed him from behind and hauled him as he struggled out of the hall. “No, boy! You’re not going anywhere!” he growled.

Imogen’s voice was clear in Hugo’s head, frantic - “Hugo! Hugo, no! Stop struggling!” - but for once Hugo was in too much of a blind panic to listen. He struggled against Uncle Vernon as he was pulled through the basement door, down the basement steps, and thrown down onto the stone floor in the pitch blackness and the cool.

“And stay in there!” Uncle Vernon barked, slamming the door shut and locking it.

Hugo lay on his side breathing heavily for a long time. This pitch black place was his darkroom, with an entire film developing station and a black light off to one side in the all-cloying darkness. The rest of the place was just storage.

At least it was better than a tiny, spider-filled cupboard.

When he thought Uncle Vernon was gone, he grabbed something sharp to pick the lock with from off the film developing station. “Do what we practiced,” Imogen breathed, worried. “Pick the lock.”

Hugo fumbled, reaching his hand out, creeping up the steps in the cloying darkness. He tried to pick the lock - but then he pushed the door open and it didn’t work. Something held. “He’s padlocked it from the outside,” Hugo breathed, hands on the door.

“What?!” Imogen shrieked.

“You heard me,” Hugo snapped harshly.

Breathing deeply and trying not to panic, he sat down on the basement steps. “I - I have to magic my way out,” he realized to himself, for once feeling very much alone and powerless. He stopped, concentrated - but nothing happened. He had no idea what he was aiming for.

“It comes with emotion,” said Imogen, breathlessly and hopefully. “Think of something emotional.”

Well that was easy. Hugo thought of struggling as he was locked down here. He concentrated on the padlock outside the door - it rattled - and then held. 

It hadn’t worked. He wasn’t strong enough - or perhaps practiced enough.

For a time, Hugo thought he was going to die down here. He assumed his bedroom and all his artwork had already been ripped apart. He fell into utter despair. He knew days must have passed, but he spent much of his time sleeping in the blackness; he had no sense of time and not even the lightbulb worked anymore. Aunt Petunia came down cautiously with a bowl of soup twice a day; a bucket was put in the corner for bowel movements; the floor was cold stone.

That was it.

Then abruptly one day, he heard distant shouting. Suddenly, the door was flung open and the light flooded in. Hugo squinted and held up his hand - Uncle Vernon was thundering down the stairs. He grabbed a weak and feeble Hugo by the arm. “Come with me!” he spat. And Uncle Vernon yanked Hugo back up the stairs and into the Dursley home, a place he never thought he’d see again.

The first thing he noticed was that the house and his work had not been torn apart. The second thing he noticed was that the house was filled with letters, parts of the floor entirely covered in great piles and torrents; more letters were still streaming in through the chimney.

The letters. They had never stopped coming. Uncle Vernon hadn’t had the time or energy to tear up any of Hugo’s old artwork. He glanced up the stairs hopefully and could still see, through the partially open door, his bedroom standing exactly the way it always was.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley were already by the door with carrying cases, Dudley actually crying. What had been happening these past few days? Hugo saw a small overnight bag for himself. Uncle Vernon grabbed it, they wrenched their way through the front door which had apparently been boarded up in a fruitless attempt to stem the flow of letters, and Uncle Vernon bounded up Hugo with rope and threw him onto the floor of the car, his overnight bag after him.

The rest of his family came after him in actual seats in the car.

Hugo felt the motor start, felt them pull out of the driveway and start fast down the roads. As they drove, never before had he wished so badly for the power he had always tried so hard to hide. He tried to magic himself untied, or the car to pull over; he tried and tried, but his magic did nothing. He had never tried to call it himself before.

Imogen was terribly silent.

Eventually, he fell into dull pain as he lay there in the car, unable even to watch the scenery. They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off… shake ‘em off…” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. Hugo became even weaker. By nightfall Dudley was howling, and Hugo felt too morose and physically crippled to tell him to shut up. Dudley had never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Hugo also learned why Dudley had been crying. His father, who seemed to have finally snapped and completely lost his mind, had hit him round the head for holding them all up while he tried to fit his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city named Cokeworth. He untied his nephew and brought a stumbling, pale, weakened Hugo up to the front desk by the arm, the other two following cautiously behind.

“I need two rooms,” said Uncle Vernon flatly, glaring at the uncertain hotel receptionist.

One thing was good. Once Hugo was kept on the floor of his aunt and uncle’s room, carefully in eyesight, they ordered room service and brought him a full and complete meal - mainly, Hugo thought, to keep him from dying. He wolfed it down as his aunt and uncle got ready for bed. Then he pulled on his pajamas and was ordered to sleep on the floor beside their bed.

He couldn’t sleep - hadn’t, really, since being locked away - and so he eventually sat perched on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and imagining a whole world of wizards and witches moving on without him.

“Boy, if you jump out that window, I’ll kill you myself,” Uncle Vernon muttered from the queen bed.

There was some sort of irony there. “Don’t tempt me,” said Hugo.

-

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next morning. It was disgusting and quite frankly Hugo could have done better himself.

“You’re starting to sound more like you again,” Imogen said with quiet, tentative hopefulness.

“Yes, well, I’ve resigned myself to life as a fugitive. It’s better than the cupboard or the basement,” Hugo answered crisply in his own head, eating breakfast with as much dignity as he could. He was running on very little sleep, but he was full of at least passable food and much of his energy was returning around people in the clearer air.

They had just finished breakfast when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“Scuse me, but is one of you Mr H Potter? Only I’ve got about a hundred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

They hadn’t stopped looking for him, Hugo realized, further tentative relief flooding him. They hadn’t given up. Their magic was following him.

Uncle Vernon looked at Hugo cautiously - and Hugo looked at Uncle Vernon with just as much caution. Then, silently, Hugo went back to his food. The Dursleys seemed confused, but there was no point in reaching for the letter. He already knew the basics of what it had to say. What good would an unread school supplies list do him?

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up and following the owner of the hotel from the dining room.

Hugo considered making a break for it, right then and there. Aunt Petunia was thin and bony, Dudley only his age. Perhaps he could make it? He eyed the door - and the hotel workers, not understanding his desire to flee, standing around it.

No. Now was not the time yet.

-

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her.

“You’re not tying me up on the floor this time?” Hugo had said, surprised, outside the car that morning.

“Keep your voice down!” Uncle Vernon had hissed, looking around. Hugo stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “Look,” said Uncle Vernon, “we’ll be in the middle of the highway going at high speeds. If you try to get out there, you’re an idiot.”

And so Hugo was in the back of the car with Dudley as Uncle Vernon drove. And drove.

Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multi-level parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared in the great curtains of rain sweeping in from the sea.

It started to rain where they were parked. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniffled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”

Monday. This reminded Hugo of something. If it was Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, would be Hugo’s eleventh birthday. 31 July. This was just more depressing. It was the Hogwarts entry deadline and might possibly be the very worst birthday he’d ever had.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling, which couldn’t be good. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. But the coast was empty. And the minute he was out of the car, Hugo bolted and tried to run. 

Uncle Vernon chased him down in several strides and grabbed him as they slipped. They clawed at each other in the mud. Uncle Vernon finally emerged with Hugo in his grasp, struggling him back to a little old rowboat bobbing in the iron grey water below them. He tied Hugo up in ropes again, leaving him in the bottom of the bobbing boat, and Aunt Petunia and Dudley got in rather carefully after them.

Hugo had seen where they were heading. There was what looked like a large rock way out at sea, and perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. It looked unsafe, unimpressive, terrifying, dangerous, and there definitely wasn’t a television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight,” Uncle Vernon heaved, spilling ice cold water over himself and then over Hugo to clear the mud away. “And I’ve got us some rations. So let’s go.”

It was freezing in the boat, and a wet Hugo began shivering, wondering if he’d get hypothermia before they got there. The boat rocked furiously as they went and Hugo knew that tied up, if that boat tipped over, he had the least chance of surviving. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces.

After what seemed like hours they reached the rock. Uncle Vernon grabbed Hugo by the arm and pushed him forward. Slipping and sliding, the Dursleys followed Hugo, getting up the rock to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible, on a human level and not just a more superficial aesthetic one; it smelled strongly of seaweed, wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Here, Uncle Vernon untied Hugo at last, because there was no point in keeping him bound - where would he go?

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shrivelled up. But Uncle Vernon was in a very good mood. He obviously thought no one stood a chance of finding them all the way out here before the deadline was over, and Hugo agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon had the lumpy bed next door. (Was everything awful here?)

Uncle Vernon turned at the doorway and laugh. “Try to escape from this,” he jeered at Hugo, and slammed the door shut behind him. Hugo had never hated any single human being so much.

Imogen again was silent, and by now Hugo knew why. Imogen felt it her duty in life to protect Hugo and fix everything for him. But from inside his head, she couldn’t do that. Imogen, like Hugo, must be running through scenarios. How, for example, could he row back to shore single handedly himself during nighttime in the middle of a storm?

Hugo was eventually left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Hugo couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling once more with what seemed by now a never-ending hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his wrist, told Hugo he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, thinking only that this would be the day when he could have become a wizard and he wasn’t going to be one.

Fives minutes to go. Four. Three. Two. One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine… The noise was upping itself, from creaks to slapping sounds and crunches outside. Suddenly it all seemed so immediately, like the house might collapse, the rock might crumble into the sea, and they might all die at any moment.

Three seconds… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Hugo sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Those sounds hadn’t been the hut or the rock at all.

Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

And unless Hugo was very much mistaken, that person had magic.


	4. Special

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.

“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands - now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you - I’m armed!”

Hugo stood. “He’s got a gun!” he shouted in warning to the person outside the door.

“Shut up, boy!” Uncle Vernon snarled, looking like he was considering turning the gun on Hugo and just ending this whole thing.

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway, so immediately intimidating that Hugo shut his mouth and swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. The man’s face was almost hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard. But you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. Hugo was good at reading people, being an artist and photographer, and somehow those eyes gave him hope.

They were the eyes of a man who could be trusted, even if everything else about the man was frightening.

“Let’s see what he does,” Imogen breathed cautiously. “If he saves you, and how he does it.”

“Let’s give him a chance,” Hugo agreed quietly in his own head, tensed to move at any split second.

The giant squeezed his way into the suddenly silent hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you?” He spoke in a thick, slanging West Country accent. “It’s not been an easy journey.”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear. 

“Budge up, you great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouched, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. Hugo only just became aware then of how frightened they were, and why Uncle Vernon hadn’t had the guts to fire his gun yet. It wasn’t just the stranger’s possible magic and the fact that he’d made it here in a storm - he also looked physically intimidating.

“And here’s Hugo!” said the giant.

Hugo looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face - silent, searching - and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Last time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “You look a lot like your Dad. Though he had a different haircut, and round wire rimmed glasses. But you’ve got your Mum’s green eyes. And a bit of her face, too - in the features. Your features are a bit smaller and more delicate like hers. But yeah, mostly your Dad. He was slimmer in build like you, same messy black hair, same thin face.”

Uncle Vernon had made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

Somehow it seemed anticlimactic, as if Uncle Vernon’s fierceness had been discovered mostly to come from a tiny, afraid man.

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, you great prune,” said the giant. He reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

In his own head, Hugo said breathlessly, with increasingly excited delight, “Imogen. Make that a drawing note for later. I think we might just have found our way out of this.”

“Excellent,” said Imogen, pleased and crisp, also becoming more herself again. “The Dursleys are terrified of someone who can use your abilities, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

The giant had turned back to Hugo. “Sir,” Hugo said immediately, “I want to go to Hogwarts! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I want to go! And - did you mean my parents were a witch and wizard as well? What did my Mum look like? What color were my Dad’s eyes? What were their names?”

It all came out at once.

“Well… yes, they were a witch and wizard like you. Your Mum came from Muggles, non magic folk, which is how you’re related to the Dursleys. Your Dad’s eyes were hazel. Your Mum was very pretty, with long, dark red hair. Their names were Lily and James Potter,” said the giant slowly. “And it’s odd that you didn’t know any of that… I suspected you might have gotten your hands on a stray letter, and of course you’ll be going to Hogwarts. I work there, so you’ve made the deadline; just stick with me.”

Hugo’s whole body visibly relaxed.

“Anyway, Hugo,” said the giant, “a very happy birthday to you. Got something for you here. I might have sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste alright.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Hugo opened it. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with the words “Happy Birthday Hugo” written on it in green icing.

The presentation left something to be desired, the cake was nothing amazing… and yet… Hugo was oddly touched. The giant had no way of knowing this, but chocolate cake was one of Hugo’s favorite things, and… no one had ever just made him a special treat before. No one had ever just made him something before at all.

There was an odd lump in his throat. “... Thank you,” he said. “But… I don’t mean to be rude…” He looked up at the giant, lost. “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced myself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Hugo’s whole arm, leaving Hugo quite startled.

“What about that tea, then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You look cold. Myself, I’d not say not to something stronger, if you’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shrivelled chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace, and Hugo moved forward to watch. To his awe, the giant took out a very battered pink umbrella, pointed it at the fire… and fire grew from the tip of the umbrella. The fire grew immediately and when the giant drew back a second later, there was already a roaring fire blazing in the grate.

It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Hugo felt the warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath. He weakened and sat down, sudden relief flooding him.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the seemingly unending pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some sort of whiskey which he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausages. It was wonderful. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, just slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant chuckled darkly.

“Your great pudding of a son don’t need fattening anymore, Dursley, don’t worry.”

He passed the sausages to Hugo, who was so hungry he had never tasted anything so wonderful. He couldn’t speak to the giant’s more complex culinary skills, but the giant could make utterly perfect sausages and as Hugo didn’t feel he was about to be poisoned, he ate freely. But he still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

Hugo had been taught basic politeness got one far in life.

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was not how Hugo had been taught to eat, but right now he was quite willing to overlook that.

“Call me Hagrid,” said the giant, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts - you’ll know all about Hogwarts, of course.”

“Er - no,” said Hugo.

“But… you just said you wanted to come,” said Hagrid, confused.

“Yes, well - the first I heard of wizards or magic was when I read the first letter by the mail slot in the front door. It made sense to me, of course, but - ever since then, the Dursleys have been trying to keep you away from me, keep me from contacting you. That’s… why I asked about my parents,” Hugo added uncertainly. “Because - I didn’t know anything.”

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Hugo added quickly, trying to stave off any impending anger directed at him.

“Sorry?!” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who for once shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that should be sorry! Wait just one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Hagrid growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy - this boy! - knows nothing about - about ANYTHING?!”

“Is there… is there a whole world of us?” Hugo asked hesitantly. “Is that what you mean?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about explode. 

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like, “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Hugo.

“Yes,” he said desperately, “there is a whole world of us. I’m part of it. You’re part of it. Your parents were part of it. And you’re - you’re telling me you don’t even know anything about your Mum and Dad! I mean - they’re famous! You’re famous!”

“In our world… I take it,” said Hugo with that same hesitancy. “Not the one… I’m familiar with.”

“You don’t know… You don’t know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Hugo with a bewildered stare. 

“You don’t what you are?” he said finally.

“I’ve guessed…” Hugo swallowed. “I knew it was true… because of the weird things that have always been happening around me. I guessed… that I caused them, when I got upset. So that’s how I knew it was true, what the letter said…”

“Boy, stop! Stop, I forbid you!” yelled Uncle Vernon with panic. Aunt Petunia gasped in horror.

“That I’m a wizard,” Hugo soldiered on, swallowing.

Vernon Dursley started toward Hugo Potter - and then stopped. A braver man than he would have quailed under the furious look Rubeus Hagrid now gave him. When Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with suppressed rage.

“You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left for him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! And you’ve kept it from him all these years?”

But Uncle Vernon had started forward again. “He’s not going to this Hogwarts place,” he said fiercely.

Hagrid grunted. “I’d like to see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he said. “Hugo.” He turned in a teacherly way to Hugo. “As I said, we call people like them Muggles. People without magic. And it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family of the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on. Your Mum’s relatives apparently left much to be desired,” he added sarcastically.

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to all that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!”

“So you did know all along,” said Hugo, frigid fury in his voice. “It’s true. You always knew I was a wizard.”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly, the one no one had been looking at. “Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my perfect sister being who she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that - and our mother and father were so proud the day she got her letter. We have a witch in the family. Isn’t it wonderful? And she disappeared off to that - that school - and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frogspawn, turning teacups into rats! I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family! Oh yes, perfect Lily, with her beauty and her brilliance and her enchanting green eyes and her lovely red hair!”

Aunt Petunia - a plain and skinny woman prone to everyday gossip with unremarkable blonde hair and no magic - stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you - at nineteen, I might add! And of course I knew you would be the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal! And then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up, and we got landed with you!”

Aunt Petunia, the one no one had been paying attention to, was probably almost the sole reason Uncle Vernon hated witches and wizards.

Hugo had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice, he said, “Blown up! You told me they died in a car crash!”

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Hugo Potter not knowing his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!”

“Ask him why the car crash story is so impossible,” said Imogen suddenly. She was busy integrating information, creating a new frame of reference for the world. “And ask him why you couldn’t magic yourself out - about young magic.”

Obediently, Hugo said, “Hagrid? Why is the car crash story impossible? And - and how could I do accidental magic but nothing purposeful to escape my relatives?”

Hagrid took a deep breath and tried to speak with calm. “Well, for one thing,” he said sarcastically, “we don’t have cars. Electricity doesn’t work around strong magic unless properly integrated by technomages. We travel by other ways, and our world works differently. Second, magic acts as a healer and a barrier against physical injury and death. Car crashes don’t kill witches and wizards.

“And accidental magic is all a kid can ever do,” Hagrid added dismissively. “Don’t feel bad about it. What do you think Hogwarts is for, if not to learn how to use your magic? Everyone else your age with powers is in the same boat. Don’t worry. A little time with us and you’ll be just fine.”

Hagrid turned to smile at the Dursleys, who looked utterly terrified. And Hugo realized one thing. If he walked out that door with Hagrid, the Dursleys would never stop being afraid of him. Their fear would never completely go away.

So full speed ahead, Hugo decided with deadly precision.

“So, Hagrid - what did you actually come here for?” he added.

“Well, to make sure you know you’re a wizard - a thumping good one, I’d say, once you’ve been trained up a little. You come from powerful parents, Hugo. Oh. And I reckon it’s about time you got to keep one of your letters.”

Hugo stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope addressed in emerald green to Mr H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-On-The-Rock, The Sea.

Well, at least it would be a memorable keepsake.

He opened the envelope and took out the two parchment pieces - the same old letter as before, from a Professor Minerva McGonagall on behalf of a Professor Albus Dumbledore, and a supplies list. Hugo looked over the letter once more.

“And you’re… sure we don’t need to notify Hogwarts?” he asked uncertainly. “It says they await my owl. What does that mean?”

“Galloping Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his head with enough force to knock over a carthorse. Hugo decided Hagrid was amusing - not in a contemptuous or scathing way, just pleasantly amusing.

From yet another pocket of his leather overcoat, Hagrid pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Hugo could read upside down.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Hugo his letter. He accepts.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.

Hagrid

“Messenger birds,” Hugo breathed at the same time Imogen realized it inside his head. Of course. They didn’t have electricity or cars; why would they have a postal service?

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone, another thing wizards probably didn’t have - not that Hugo actually minded at this point; he was just happy to be included.

Hugo realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid.

Hugo was reminded of something by Imogen. He paused - and looked up cautiously.

“... Why are my parents and I famous?” he asked softly, his eyes glinting. “And how did they die?”

Hagrid looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting hold of you, how much you didn’t know. Ah, Hugo, I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you - but someone’s got to. You can’t go off to Hogwarts not knowing.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best you know as much as I can tell you. Mind, I can’t tell you everything. It’s a great mystery, parts of it.”

Hagrid stared into the fire for a few seconds, as if gathering his thoughts, and then began.

“It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it’s incredible you don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows -”

“Who?”

“Well - I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulping gargoyles, Hugo, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Hugo suggested.

“Nah - can’t spell it. Alright - Voldemort.” Hagrid shuddered. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started looking for followers. Got ‘em, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit of his power, ‘cause he was getting himself power, all right. Dark days, Hugo. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was taking over. ‘Course, some stood up to him, and he killed them. Horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. Didn’t dare try taking the school, not just then, anyway.

“Now, your mum and dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew, Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on his side before… probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anything to do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade them… maybe he just wanted them out of the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. You came to your house and - and -”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn. Hugo jumped. He knew this was a very stupid thought to have at the moment, but Hagrid really did need to clean that thing. 

“Sorry,” Hagrid said. “But it’s that sad - knew your mum and dad, and nicer people you couldn’t find - anyway…

“You-Know-Who killed them.”

“What were they like?” said Hugo suddenly. Imogen had pushed him to ask the question.

Hagrid paused in surprise. Hugo was looking up at him earnestly, feeling a very peculiar longing inside him.

Hagrid cleared his throat and looked away, those kind eyes a little watery. “Well,” he said gruffly. “They were brilliant. A great witch and wizard. But, more than that… your Mum, Lily Evans, was fiery but very kind. More of a rule follower, I suppose, than your father. Your Dad, James Potter, he was a troublemaker, no doubt about it! A great prankster, good sense of humor, good at flying broom sports like Quidditch, very popular. Your Mum had to deflate his head a bit, keep him more in line, before she finally agreed to go out with him in her seventh and final year. She held out and pretended to hate him until then - quite gutsy, really, as he was the one from the old wizarding family and he obviously liked her. They ended up getting married before anyone else, right out of school, and surprised everybody.

“And he killed them. You Know Who did. They were twenty years old.”

“What is wizarding marriage like?” Hugo wondered, now full of questions about these parents of his who had been murdered in their home by a Dark wizard.

“Well, usually done outdoors, with lots of nature decoratings. All religions are welcome with us, so who officiates is your own choice. Wizards usually dress like Muggles, but robes are still traditional gear, so one gets married in robes. A wedding topper of two twin phoenixes who fly upward together in a burst of flame is standard on the wedding cake.

“And anyone can get married - people of any race, any gender, any sexuality, you know.”

“Really?” said Hugo, surprised.

“Well, yes. We were chased down during the witch hunts. It’s why we separated. You didn’t really think we were going to chase down anyone else, did you?” said Hagrid.

“No… I suppose not,” Hugo realized.

“And anyone can have kids,” Hagrid confirmed. “At the hospital, they have these - they’re called Bubbles. The DNA of each person is connected in this sort of vat, a big glowing gold thing called a Bubble. The baby grows inside there, gets all its nutrients, you know. Then it comes out at nine months.”

“That would be good for straight couples who can’t have kids, too,” Hugo realized.

“Well, exactly,” said Hagrid, smiling.

“So - my parents were -” Hugo swallowed. “And what happened after that?”

“Well, then - and this is the real mystery of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted to make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killing by then. But he couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do it?” Imogen and Hugo said as one, Hugo frowning.

“The curse failed,” said Hagrid meaningfully. “Backfired on him. Never wondered where you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you - a curse scar. Took care of your mum and dad and your house, even - but it didn’t work on you, and that’s why you’re famous, Hugo. No one ever lived after he decided to kill them, no one except you, and he’d killed some of the best witches and wizards of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - and you was only a baby, and you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Hugo’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before - felt again the burning pain in his forehead - and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life. A high, cold, cruel laugh.

“He sounds almost hysterical,” Imogen said, disturbed, as a chill went up Hugo’s spine. “He was laughing as he killed them. As he tried to kill you.”

Ironically enough, it was the one thing he would always be doomed to remember.

Hagrid was watching Hugo sadly.

“Took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders.”

“Why would he get to say where I ended up?” Hugo asked, in that moment one with Imogen, who suddenly had the question.

“Ah, well, he was the leader of the war effort against You-Know-Who. You’ve seen the letter. Important political player, on lots of councils. To say nothing of him being head of Hogwarts and an amazing wizard…” said Hagrid. “And he thought that growing up anonymous would be good for you.” Here, Hagrid’s disgust was clear. “So reluctantly, McGonagall and I helped him bring you to this lot.”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Hugo jumped; he had almost forgotten the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it - all that freakish nonsense about everyone being included - the world’s better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these bizarre wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end -”

But suddenly, Uncle Vernon held his hands up to his throat, trailing off. His face was turning increasingly purple.

“STOP PICKING ON ME!” Hugo shouted, rage bubbling up inside him from days of being kidnapped, bound, and trapped places. “LEAVE ME - LEAVE MY PARENTS - LEAVE MY MAGIC - LEAVE MY ART - ALONE!”

And that was when he realized his Uncle Vernon was choking. His magic had come out at last.

His magic released with his surprise, and Uncle Vernon fell to the floor, slumped over, breathing heavily. “Vernon!” Petunia shrieked, bending over him. 

“Dad!” Dudley called in panic.

Hugo turned desperately to Hagrid. “Please - I’m sorry - I didn’t do it on purpose -”

“I know you didn’t,” said Hagrid, seeming only mildly surprised. “It had to come out eventually, didn’t it?” He chuckled and walked over to Vernon, looming over him. “Well, you’d best get him where he needs to go when he needs to get there,” he said. “And you’d best - leave his art alone, was it? No more comments of that sort. Or I suppose it isn’t only me you’ll have to be worrying about, is it?”

Vernon scrambled to his feet, and directed one last terrified look at Hugo. Then he grabbed his wife and son and he fled into the other room, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Don’t worry,” Hagrid told a still-worried Hugo cheerfully. “I lose my temper all the time when I’m not supposed to. I won’t tell anyone. Technically I’m not supposed to be doing any magic at all. I was allowed to do a bit to follow you and get your letters to you and stuff - one of the reasons I was so keen to take on the job from McGonagall -”

“Why aren’t you allowed to do magic?” said Hugo. 

“Oh. I was at Hogwarts myself, but I, er - got expelled, to tell you the truth. In my third year. They snapped my wand in half and everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore. I’m very protective of his reputation,” Hagrid admitted sheepishly.

“Why were you expelled?” Hugo asked curiously.

“Did you have any more questions for me?” Hagrid asked loudly. He looked at Hugo pointedly.

Hugo decided to take the hint, forcing a curious Imogen to the back of his mind.

“What happened to Vol-, sorry - I mean, You-Know-Who? He was hit by the curse, right?” Hugo asked instead.

“Good question, Hugo. He was hit by the curse, but no body was found. Disappeared. Vanished, never to return. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous. That’s the biggest mystery, see… he was getting more and more powerful - why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die.”

“No human?”

“Well, he’d been experimenting on himself - wanted immortality - he wasn’t human anymore, really. Didn’t even look it. Some say he’s still out there, biding his time, like, but I don’t believe it. People who was on his side came back to ours. Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances, don’t reckon they could have done if he was coming back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause something about you finished him, Hugo. There was something going on that night he hadn’t counted on - I don’t know what it was, no one does - but something about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Hugo with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Hugo, instead of feeling pleased and proud, was gripped by the irrational certainty that it had all been quite some mistake. He didn’t feel capable of defeating the greatest dark sorcerer in the world now, let alone when he’d been a baby.

“Hagrid,” he said slowly, as Imogen was still busy calculating and integrating, “do you think there’s any possibility… what happened that night didn’t have anything directly to do with me?”

“What else could it be, Hugo?” said Hagrid, puzzled. “You’re the only one who lived.”

“I - don’t exactly remember - doing anything - special.”

“How much do you remember?”

“Not much,” Hugo admitted.

Hagrid chuckled. “You do have magic, Hugo - strong enough for you and your relatives to notice - you’ve told me so yourself. Look at what you just did to someone who was bullying you! Don’t worry,” he added perceptively, “you’ll turn out just fine, okay?” He gave a kind smile from behind his wild, tangled beard.

Hugo smiled back hesitantly and nodded.

“So. It’s getting late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid. “Gotta get up to town, get all your books and that.”

He took off his thick black leather coat and threw it at Hugo, collapsing back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Use it as a bed and a blanket, you’re small enough. Don’t mind if it wriggles a bit. I think I still got a couple of dormice in one of the pockets.”


End file.
